4

When Celia arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport in the early morning for a two-day visit, no time was wasted. A waiting limousine transported her directly to the Felding-Roth Research Institute where she would review with Martin Peat-Smith and others what she now thought of mentally as “the Harlow equation.”

After that, having reached a decision about what to recommend to Sam, she would fly home.

During her first day at Harlow she was made pointedly aware that the mood, with almost everyone she met, was upbeat. From Martin downward, Celia was assured how well the research on mental aging was progressing, how much had been learned already, and how hard—and as a coordinated team—all concerned were working. Only occasionally were there flashes—like fleeting, accidental glimpses through the doorway of a private donjon—of what seemed to her like doubt or hesitancy. Then they were gone, or instantly denied, leaving her to wonder if she had imagined them after all.

To begin, on that first day Martin walked with her through the labs, explaining work in progress. Since their last meeting, he explained, he and others working with him had fulfilled their initial objective of “discovering and isolating an mRNA which is different in the brains of young animals compared with old ones.” He added, “This will probably, in time, be found equally true of human beings.”

The scientific jargon flowed.

“… extracted mRNA from the brains of rats of varying ages … afterward the extraction incubated with ‘broken cell’ preparations of yeast with radioactive amino acids added … the yeast system manufactures the animal brain peptides which become mildly radioactive also … next, separate them by means of their electric charge, on special gels … following that, use an X-ray film and, where bands appear, we have a peptide …”

Like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat—voilà!—Martin slid several eight-by-ten negatives across a lab bench where he and Celia had paused. “These are films of the chromatograms.”

As Celia picked them up, they seemed to be almost clear, transparent films, but Martin commanded, “Look closely and you’ll see two columns of dark lines. One is from the young rat, the other from the old. Notice …” He pointed with a finger. “Here and here on the young rat column are at least nine peptides no longer being produced in the older animal’s brain.” His voice rose with excitement as he declared, “Now we have positive evidence that the brain RNA, and probably the DNA, change during the aging process. This is terribly important.”

“Yes,” Celia said, but wondered silently: was it really a triumph justifying more than two years of combined effort here at enormous expense?

A reminder of the expense was all around—the spacious labs and modern offices, all with modular dividers permitting rearrangement when desired; the unobstructed corridors; a cozy conference room; and, in the elaborately equipped labs, a wealth of stainless steel and modern benches, the latter manufactured from synthetics—no wood allowed because, in scientific terms, wood was dirty. Air conditioning removed airborne impurities. Lighting was bright without glare. A pair of incubation rooms housed massive glass-faced incubators, specially designed to hold racks of petri dishes containing bacteria and yeast. Still other rooms had double-entry doors with “Danger: Radiation Hazard” signs outside.

The contrast to the Cambridge laboratories that Celia had visited with Martin was startling, though a few familiar things remained. One was paper—a prodigious quantity piled high and untidily on desks, Martin’s in particular. You could change a scientist’s background, she thought, but not his work habits.

As they moved away from the bench and the chromatograms, Martin continued explanations.

“Now that we have the RNA, we can make the corresponding DNA … then we must insert it into the DNA of living bacteria … try to ‘fool’ the bacteria into making the required brain peptide.”

Celia attempted to absorb as much as she could at high speed.

Near the end of their inspection, Martin opened a door to a small laboratory where a white-coated, elderly male technician was confronting a half-dozen rats in cages. The technician was wizened and slightly stooped, with only a fringe of hair surrounding his head, and wore old-fashioned pince-nez secured by a black cord worn around the neck. Martin announced, “This is Mr. Yates, who is about to do some animal dissections.”

“Mickey Yates.” He extended his hand. “I know who you are. Everybody does.”

Martin laughed. “That’s right, they do.” He asked Celia, “May I leave you here for a few minutes? I have to make a phone call.”

“Of course.” When Martin had gone, closing the door behind him, she told Yates, “If it won’t bother you, I’d like to watch.”

“Won’t bother me at all. First, though, I have to kill one of these little buggers.” He motioned to the rats.

With quick, deft movements, the technician opened a refrigerator and, from the freezing compartment, took out a smallish, clear plastic box with a hinged lid. Inside was a slightly raised platform with a tray beneath containing crystalline material from which wisps of evaporation rose. “Dry ice,” Yates said. “Put it in there just before you came.”

Opening one of the cages, he reached in and expertly grasped a large, squirming white-gray rat which he transferred to the plastic box, then closed the lid. Celia could now see the rat, on the small platform inside.

“Because of the dry ice, in there it’s a CO₂ environment,” Yates said. “You know what that means?”

Celia smiled at the elementary question. “Yes. Carbon dioxide is what we all breathe out after we’ve used the air’s oxygen. We couldn’t live on it.”

“Nor can chummy there. He’s just about a goner.”

While they watched, the rat jerked twice, then was still. A minute passed. “He’s stopped breathing,” Yates said cheerfully. After another thirty seconds he opened the plastic box, removed the unmoving creature and pronounced, “Dead as a doornail. But it’s a slow way to do it.”

“Slow? It seemed quick to me.” Celia was trying to remember how rats were killed during her own laboratory days, but couldn’t.

“It’s slow when you’ve got a lot to do. Dr. Peat-Smith likes us to use the CO₂ box, but there’s another way that’s faster. This one.” Yates reached down. Opening a cupboard beneath the lab bench, he produced a second box, this time metal. The design differed from the first in that one end of the box had a small round aperture cut into it while immediately above was a hinged, sharp knife. “This here’s a guillotine,” Yates said, still cheerfully. “The French know how to do things.”

“But messily,” Celia responded. Now she remembered; she had seen rats killed in a similar kind of device.

“Oh, it ain’t that bad. And it’s fast.” Yates glanced over his shoulder at the closed door, then, before Celia could object, he took a fresh rat from a cage and swiftly thrust it in the second box, its head protruding through the round hole. As if slicing bread, he pushed the hinged knife down.

There was a soft crunching sound, another which might have been a cry, then the rat’s head fell forward as blood spurted from arteries in the severed neck. Celia, despite her familiarity with laboratories and research, felt sick.

Yates casually tossed the rat’s body, still bleeding and twitching, into a trash receptacle and picked up the head. “All I have to do now is remove the brain. Fast and painless!” The technician laughed. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

Angry and disgusted at once, Celia said, “You did not have to do that for me!”

“Do what?” It was Martin’s voice behind her. He had come in quietly, and now took in the scene. After a moment, and with equal quietness, he instructed, “Celia, please wait outside.”

As Celia left, Martin was glaring at Yates and breathing heavily.

While she waited, through the intervening door she heard Martin’s angrily raised voice. “Don’t ever again! … not if you want to go on working here … my orders, always to use the CO₂ box which is painless, no other way! … get that other monstrosity out of here or break it up … I will not have cruelty, do you understand?”

She heard the voice of Yates saying weakly, “Yessir.”

When Martin emerged, he took Celia’s arm and escorted her to the conference room where they were alone, a thermos jug of coffee between them, from which Martin poured.

“I’m sorry that happened; it shouldn’t have,” he told her. “Yates got carried away, probably because he isn’t used to having an attractive woman watch him at work—at which he’s very good, incidentally, and it’s the reason I brought him here from Cambridge. He can dissect a rat’s brain the way a surgeon would.”

Celia said, her mild annoyance past, “It was a small thing. It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

She said curiously, “You care about animals, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.” Martin sipped coffee, then said, “It’s impossible to do research without inflicting some pain on animals. Human needs come first, and even animal lovers have to accept that. But the pain should be kept to a minimum, which you ensure by an attitude of caring; otherwise it’s all too easy to become callous. I’ve reminded Yates of that. I don’t think he’ll forget.”

The incident made Celia like and respect Martin even more than before. But, she reminded herself, likes or dislikes must not affect her purpose here.

“Let’s get back to your progress,” she said briskly. “You’ve talked about differences in the brains of young and old animals, also your plans to synthesize a DNA. But you haven’t yet isolated a protein—the peptide you’re looking for, the one that counts. Correct?”

“Correct.” Martin gave his swift, warm smile, then continued confidently. “What you just described is the next step, also the toughest. We’re working on it, and it will happen, though of course it all takes time.”

She reminded him, “When the institute opened, you said, ‘Allow me two years.’ You expected to have something positive by then. That was two years and four months ago.”

He seemed surprised. “Did I really say that?”

“You certainly did. Sam remembers. So do I.”

“Then it was reckless of me. Working, as we are here, at the frontier of science, timetables can’t apply.” Again Martin seemed untroubled, yet Celia detected strain beneath the surface. Physically, too, Martin seemed out of condition. His face was pale; his eyes suggested fatigue, probably from long hours of work; and there were lines on his face which had not been there two years ago.

“Martin,” Celia said, “why won’t you send progress reports? Sam has a board of directors he must satisfy, and shareholders …”

The scientist shook his head, for the first time impatiently. “It’s more important that I concentrate on research. Reports, so much writing and paperwork, take up valuable time.” He asked abruptly, “Have you read John Locke?”

“At college, a little.”

“He wrote that man makes discoveries by ‘steadily intending his mind in a given direction.’ A scientific researcher must remember that.”

Celia abandoned the subject for the time being, but raised it later that day with the administrator, ex-Squadron Leader Bentley, who suggested a different reason for the absence of reports.

“You should understand, Mrs. Jordan,” Nigel Bentley said, “that Dr. Peat-Smith finds it excruciatingly difficult to put anything in writing. A reason is that his mind moves forward so quickly that what was important to him yesterday may be out of date today, and even more so tomorrow. He is actually embarrassed by things that he wrote earlier—two years ago, for example. He sees them as naïve even though, at the time, they may have been incredibly perceptive. If he could have his way, he’d wipe out everything he’s written in the past. It’s a trait not uncommon in scientists. I’ve encountered it before.”

Celia said, “Tell me some more things I should know about the scientific mind.” They were sharing the privacy of Bentley’s modest but neatly organized office where Celia was having increasing respect for this competent, sparrowlike man she had chosen to run the research institute’s business side.

Nigel Bentley considered, then began, “Perhaps the most important thing is that scientists stay so long in the educational process, become so involved in their chosen, sometimes narrow, specialties, that they come to the realities of everyday life much later than the rest of us. Indeed, some great scholars never come to grips with those realities at all.”

“I’ve heard it said that they stay, in some ways, childlike.”

“Precisely, Mrs. Jordan, and in certain areas very much that way. It’s why one sees, so often, childish behavior in academic circles—petty squabbles and the like, over trivial issues.”

Celia said thoughtfully, “I would not have thought any of that was true of Martin Peat-Smith.”

“Possibly not, within those specific limits,” Bentley acknowledged. “But in other ways.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, something Dr. Peat-Smith has great trouble with is small decisions. Some days, as one might put it, he can’t decide which side of the street to walk on. As an example, he agonized for weeks over which one of two technicians we employ should have preference in going on a three-day course in London. It was a minor matter, something you or I would have decided in a few minutes and, in the end, because my superior couldn’t reach a decision, I made it for him. All this, of course, is in total contrast to Dr. Peat-Smith’s mainstream purpose—his scientific clarity and dedication.”

“You’re making several things much clearer,” Celia said. “Including why Martin hasn’t sent reports.”

“There’s something else I believe I should point out,” Bentley volunteered. “It may even have a bearing on your visit.”

“Go ahead.”

“Dr. Peat-Smith is a leader and, as with any leader, it would be a mistake for him to show weakness or exhibit doubts about the progress being made here. If he did, the morale of those working with him would collapse. And something else: Dr. Peat-Smith has been used to working alone, at his own pace. Now, suddenly, he has huge responsibilities, with many people depending on him, as well as other pressures—subtle and not so subtle—including your own presence, Mrs. Jordan, here and now. All those things are an enormous strain on any individual.”

“Then there are doubts about the work being done,” Celia said. “Serious doubts? I’ve been wondering.”

Bentley, who was facing Celia across his desk, put the tips of his fingers together and regarded her across them. “In working here I have an obligation to Dr. Peat-Smith, but an even larger responsibility to you and Mr. Hawthorne. Therefore I must answer your question—yes.”

“I want to know about those doubts,” Celia said. “In detail.”

Bentley answered, “I lack the scientific qualifications.” He hesitated, then went on, “It would be irregular, perhaps, but I believe you should speak privately with Dr. Sastri and instruct him, as you have authority to do, to open up totally and frankly.”

Dr. Rao Sastri, as Celia knew, was the nucleic acid chemist—a Pakistani, formerly a Cambridge colleague—whom Martin had recruited as his scientific second-in-command.

“This is too important to worry about what’s regular or isn’t, Mr. Bentley,” she said. “Thank you. I’ll do as you suggest.”

“Is there any other way in which I can help?”

Celia considered. “Martin quoted John Locke at me today. Is he a Locke disciple?”

“Yes, and so am I.” Bentley gave a small, tight smile. “The two of us share a conviction that Locke was one of the finer philosophers and guides this world has ever known.”

“I’d like something of Locke’s to read tonight,” Celia said. “Can you get it for me?”

Bentley made a note. “It will be waiting for you at your hotel.”

It was not until late afternoon, during her second day at Harlow, that Celia was able to have her talk with Dr. Sastri. In between that and her session the previous day with Nigel Bentley, she talked with others at the institute who were consistently cheerful and optimistic in their views about the Harlow research scene. Yet still Celia had a sense of something being held back, an instinct that those she had met were being less than forthright with her.

Rao Sastri proved to be a handsome, dark-skinned, articulate and fast-speaking young man, still in his twenties. Celia knew he had a Ph.D. and a brilliant scholastic record, and both Martin and Bentley had assured her the institute was fortunate in having him. Sastri and Celia met in an annex to the plant cafeteria, a small room normally used by senior staff for working lunches. After shaking hands with Sastri, and before they sat down, Celia closed the door for privacy.

She said, “I believe you know who I am.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Jordan. My colleague Peat-Smith has spoken of you frequently, and kindly. At this time I am honored to meet you.” Sastri’s speech was cultured and precise, with a Pakistani lilt. He also smiled frequently, though at times switching off the smile with a trace of nervousness.

“I am happy to meet you also,” Celia said, “and wish to discuss with you the progress of research here.”

“It is wonderful! Truly marvelous! A jolly good show all around.”

“Yes,” Celia acknowledged, “others have told me the same. But before we go on I would like to make clear that I am here on behalf of Mr. Hawthorne, the president of Felding-Roth, and exercising his authority.”

“Oh, dear! My goodness! I wonder what is coming now.”

“What is coming, Dr. Sastri, is that I am asking you—ordering you, in fact—to be totally frank with me, holding back nothing, including any doubts you have, and which so far you may have kept entirely to yourself.”

“All this is damned awkward,” Sastri said. “Also not entirely fair, as I pointed out to Bentley when he informed me of this line you would be taking. I do, after all, have an obligation to Peat-Smith, who is a decent chap.”

“You have an even bigger obligation to Felding-Roth,” Celia told him sharply, “because the company pays your salary—a good one—and is entitled to your honest professional opinions in return.”

“I say, Mrs. Jordan! You don’t mess about, do you?” The young Pakistani’s tone mixed shock and awe.

“Messing about—as you eloquently put it, Dr. Sastri—takes time, which I don’t have a lot of, since I’m returning to America tomorrow. So please tell me exactly where, in your opinion, our institute research is, and where it’s going.”

Sastri raised both hands in a submissive gesture, and sighed. “Very well. The research is not very far along. And, in my humble opinion and that of others in this project, it is going nowhere.”

“Explain those opinions.”

“In more than two years, all that has been achieved is to confirm a theory that there are brain DNA changes during aging. Oh yes, it is an interesting accomplishment, but beyond it we are facing a damned blank wall which we do not have techniques to penetrate, may not have for many years, and even then the peptide Peat-Smith has postulated may not be behind the wall.”

Celia queried, “You do not accept that postulation?”

“It is my colleague’s theory, Mrs. Jordan. I admit I shared it.” Sastri shook his head regretfully. “But, in my inmost heart, no longer.”

“Martin informed me,” Celia said, “that you have proved the existence of a unique RNA and should be able to make the corresponding DNA.”

“Which is, by golly, true! But perhaps what you were not told is that the isolated material may be too large. The mRNA strand is long, and codes for many proteins, possibly forty altogether. It is therefore unusable—just ‘nonsense’ peptides.”

Celia reached into her scientific memory. “Can the material be cleaved? Each peptide isolated?”

Sastri smiled; his voice assumed a superior edge. “There is the blank wall. There are no techniques to take us further. Possibly in ten years from now …” He shrugged.

For another twenty minutes they talked science, Celia learning that, of the group of scientists now working at Harlow on the mental aging project, only Martin remained a true believer that it would produce worthwhile results.

At the end she said, “Thank you, Dr. Sastri. You’ve told me what I crossed the Atlantic to find out.”

The young man nodded sadly. “I have done my duty as you insisted. But I will not sleep well tonight.”

“I don’t expect to either,” Celia said. “But that’s a price which people like you and me pay sometimes—for being where we are.”